Aparichita

I am twenty-seven now. My life

so far has been remarkable neither in

achievement nor in its length. Yet, for

me it has acquired a certain value of

its own. It is like a flower ripening into

fruit, cherishing all the while the

memory of the chance contact with a

honey-bee which made it all happen.

It was a brief encounter and I shall tell

it briefly—for the appreciation of

those who do not confuse brevity

with insignificance.

I have come successfully through

all the examinations in the university.

My teachers used to compare me with

the silk cotton flower and the bright

but useless maakal fruit, in an

obvious reference to my good looks.

I used to be embarrassed by these

comparisons but now I feel that if I

were to be born again, I would like to

look the same and gladly bear the

taunts of my teachers.

My father had been poor once.

Later he earned a great deal of money

as a lawyer, but never had the leisure

to enjoy his hard earned wealth. The

only rest he had was when he

breathed his last. It was really my

mother who brought me up. Being

from a poor household herself she

made sure that I should never forget

that we were rich now. I was pampered

and fussed over as a child so much

that I probably never grew up. Even

today I look as if I am the little brother

of Ganesh, sitting in the lap of

Annapurna, the mother goddess.

My guardian was my mother’s

brother, barely six years older than me.

He had absorbed all the cares of our

family, rather like the legendary river

Phalgu which runs underground. You

have to dig through the sand for even

a drop of water. Because of him, I was

spared all responsibility.

The fathers of all marriageable

daughters would find me a highly

eligible bachelor. I have no bad habits,

not even smoking. I find it easy to be

good because it calls for least

resistance. I am an obedient son,

because I lack the ability to disobey.

Any woman seeking a husband

would do well to remember that I have

been trained under a feminine regimen.

Many rich families sought a

marriage alliance with us. But my

uncle, who was the arbiter of my

destiny, had certain fixed notions on

marriage. He was against daughters

of rich fathers. He preferred a bride to

enter our house with her head bowed

down in humility. Yet his love of lucre was

instinctive. He wanted as my bride a girl

whose father would not be wealthy, but who

could be imposed upon to provide some

cash. In short, someone who could

be squeezed, but need not be

respected; if we offered the ordinary

hookah, instead of the more formal

gargara reserved for the distinguished

guests, he would not complain.

My friend Harish who works in

Kanpur came home to Calcutta during

the vacation to plant the seed of

restlessness in rne: “My friend,” he

said “if you are talking of girls, I know

of a very attractive one.”

I had already finished my Masters

degree. A vast and arid expanse of idle

time lay before me as far as I could

stretch my vision into the future. No

examination ahead, no need to take

up a job, nor look for one. I had neither

the training nor the inclination to look

after the affairs of the family or to

prepare for any kind of work. All that

I had was my mother inside the house,

and my uncle to negotiate with the

world outside.

Over the horizon of this desert of

leisure the mirage of the eternal

feminine loomed large for me. The sky

bore her gaze, her breath was in the

air, the murmur of leaves whispered

her secrets. It was at this time that

Harish arrived with his provoking

words: “Speaking of girls ....” My

body and mind began to weave

tremulously a tapestry of light and

shade as the new bakul leaves do at

the breath of spring. Harish was a

connoisseur; he could make his

descriptions come alive with

delectable juice and in any case, my

mind was parched.

I suggested to Harish that he

should broach the topic to my uncle.

Harish had a knack of getting along

with everyone. Even my uncle sought

his company. The subject was duly

mentioned to him. My uncle was more

concerned with the father of the girl

than the girl herself. The father seemed

to fit the bill admirably. At one time

Lakshmi blessed their family coffers,

filling them to the brim. These were

nearly empty now but there were still

the dregs left. Since it was no longer

possible to maintain the old life style

with his reduced means, the father had

left his ancestral place to move

westwards. In Kanpur he lived like an

ordinary householder with limited

means. Since this daughter was his

only child, there was every

likelihood that he would not

hesitate to scrape the

bottom of the family chest

for her sake.

All these were positive

factors. But my uncle was

not pleased to know that

the girl was already fifteen.

Was there some flaw

somewhere along the

family tree? No, none

whatsoever. It was just that

the father had been unable

to find a bridegroom for his

daughter to his liking.

Eligible bachelors were

expensive and his own expectations

were pitched high. So he kept on

waiting endlessly but time did not

stand still for the girl.

Thanks to Harish’s eloquent

persuasion, eventually my uncle

seemed to relent. The preliminary part

of the negotiations went off smoothly.

Any place outside Calcutta could as

well be a part of the Andaman islands

as far as my uncle was concerned. The

farthest he had ever travelled in his

life was nearby Konnagar where he

was once forced to go on some work.

Were he the law-giver Manu, crossing

of the Howrah bridge would have

been forbidden in his code. I could

not summon up courage to mention

that I would have liked to go to

Kanpur once to see the girl.

The person sent to Kanpur on our

behalf to the negotiations was none

other than my elder cousin Binu. I had

full faith in his taste and judgment.

On his return his comment to me about

the girl was, “Not bad at all, my boy.

Pure gold, to be sure.”

Binu-dada is known for his

understatements. What we describe

as excellent, he prefers to call

adequate. So I knew that in my case

there would be no conflict between

the deity of marriage and the god of

romance.

II

Needless to say, the bride’s party

had to come to Calcutta for the

wedding. Shambhunath Babu, the

bride’s father, must have trusted

Harish implicitly because he saw me

for the first time only three days before

the wedding when he came to formally

bless me. He was a remarkably

handsome man of around forty years.

His whiskers were turning grey, but

his hair was still black. He was the

kind of person who would stand out

in a crowd.

I hoped that he approved of me. It

was difficult to tell because he was a

man of few words. Even when he

spoke, he did so without too much

emphasis. My uncle on the other

hand was in his element; he spoke

incessantly to prove to him on every

pretext that we were among the best

and the wealthiest families in the city.

Shambhunath Babu did not

participate in this discussion, not

even with occasional nods of assent

of dissent. I would have been put off

by his lack of response, but my uncle

is not easily discouraged.

Shambhunath Babu’s silence

convinced him that the man lacked

spirit. In a way this pleased him

because as a rule he preferred fathers

of daughters to be subdued and

diffident. When Shambhunath Babu

left, my uncle bid him a curt goodbye

and did not bother to go

down to see him off to the

carriage outside.

The amount of dowry

had already been settled.

My uncle prided himself

on being extremely

shrewd. He would not

allow any vagueness in

financial matters. Not only

was the exact amount to

be paid in cash stipulated,

but the weight and quality

of the gold to be given

was also specified. Not

being involved in these

transactions l did not

know the details. But I knew that these

crude calculations were an important

part of marriage and the person in

charge of it in our family would not

settle for a fraction less than what he

had demanded. In fact his

shrewdness was a matter of pride in

our family. It was taken for granted

that he would win in any battle of wits

wherever our family interest was

involved. Even if we did not need the

money, or the other party could ill

afford to pay, our family pride required

us to win at any cost.

The turmeric ceremony was held

with unprecedented pomp. Indeed,

one could have engaged a clerk to

keep tally of the many men from our

side who went bearing gifts to the

bride’s house. My mother and uncle

chuckled at the thought of the hard time the bride’s people would have in

tipping our bearers. 

I arrived at the wedding place with

the accompaniment of a brassband,

flutes, cornets and all possible

noisemakers, trampling underfoot the

lotus pool of Saraswati—the muse of

melody —rather like a mad elephant,

a demon of barbaric cacophony.

Bedecked in a glittering cloth of gold

with rings and necklaces, I looked like

a jewellery shop on display for

auction. I was going to confront my

future father-in-law with a price-tag

on my person.

My uncle was upset as soon as

he entered the house where the

wedding ceremony

was to take place.

The courtyard was

not large enough for

the bridegroom’s

party to be

comfortable and the

arrangements were far

from lavish. On top of

it Shambhunath

Babu’s welcome also

was not sufficiently

effusive or

obsequious. He

hardly spoke. An

i m m e d i a t e

confrontation was

averted by a lawyer

friend of Shambhunath Babu who made up for

the host’s reserve by his exaggerated

politeness. A plump, dark and baldheaded

man, he tied a shawl around

his waist, and went around with folded

hands, bowing his head, smiling

ingratiatingly, and in his hoarse voice

generally entertaining everybody

from the groom’s party including even

the lowly cymbalist.

Soon after I sat down in the sabha,

my uncle took Shambhunath Babu

aside. I did not know what went on

between them, but after a while

Shambhunath Babu came to me and

said, “My son, will you please step

this way?”

Then I knew what had transpired.

Most people in this world, if not all,

have a very clear object in life. My

uncle’s was the determination never

to be tricked by anyone. He feared

that the girl’s father might deceive him

in the quality of gold in the bridal

jewellery. Once the wedding was over

there would be no way of undoing

the fraud. He had already seen

evidences of Shambhunath Babu’s

miserliness in the choice of the house

he rented for the wedding, in the

amount of the tips given to our men

bearing the gifts, and generally in the

sparse arrangements for the marriage.

My uncle was not about to trust him

about the quality and quantity of the

promised gold. He had brought our

family goldsmith with him. When I

entered the room I found my uncle

sitting on a bare cot with the goldsmith

sitting on the floor by him, ready with

his weighing scale and touchstone.

Shambhunath Babu turned to me:

“Your uncle would like to test all the

gold jewellery before the wedding

ceremony begins. How do you feel

about it?” I lowered my gaze and

remained silent. “What can he have

to say? Mine is the last word on the

subject,” my uncle intervened.

Shambhunath Babu looked at me “Is

this true? Is it only his opinion that

counts? And you have nothing to say

about this?” I shook my head to

indicate that the matter was beyond

my jurisdiction.

He stood up and said, “In that

case, please wait. I will go and strip

my daughter of all her ornaments.”

“Anupam has nothing to do here.

Let him go back to the sabha,” my

uncle suggested.

“No, not to the sabha,”

Shambhunath Babu insisted. “He

must stay here.”

He came back soon with a bundle

of jewellery tied up in a towel and

poured the contents on

the cot where my uncle

was sitting. All the

designs in solid gold, not

the flimsy filigree work one

finds these days. The

goldsmith picked one up

and said, “No need to

test. There is no alloy

here. Such pure gold is

hardly seen these days.”

His fingers pressed a

bangle shaped like a

crocodile’s mouth and it

bent quite easily.

As a matter of caution,

he itemised the pieces of

jewellery in his notebook,

in case what was finally

given to the girl did not tally with what

was being shown to him. He also

checked the weight and value of the

gold, only to find that the amount far

exceeded his demand.

There was a pair of ear-rings in

the pile. Shambhunath handed it to

the goldsmith and asked him to test

it. The goldsmith said “This piece

looks imported. The gold content is

rather low in this metal.”

Shambhunath Babu put the

earrings.

in my uncle’s hand and said,

“You’d better keep these.” My uncle

looked at the ear-rings and realised

that these were given to the bride as

apresent from our side. His face

reddened. He was not only deprived

of the pleasure of catching out this

indigent man in his attempt to

shortchange him, but was humiliated

in the bargain. With a gloomy face he

ordered me, “Anupam, you may go

and sit in the sabha now.”

Shambhunath Babu stopped me.

“No, there is no need to go to the

sabha. You must have your dinner

first.”

“Dinner?” My uncle was

surprised. “Whoever has heard of

dinner before the hour of marriage?”

Shambhunath Babu insisted that

we should not worry about that and

go for our dinner instead.

Despite the outward appearance

of gentleness, the man seemed to

possess an inner strength which made

my uncle accede to his request. The

bridegroom’s party sat down to dinner.

The food was simple, but tasty, and it

was served with such neatness and

elegance that everyone was satisfied.

After their dinner was over 

Shambhunath Babu asked me to eat

also. “But how is that possible!” my

uncle exclaimed. “How can the

bridegroom

eat before the wedding

ceremony?”

Ignoring my uncle’s views on the

subject Shambhunath Babu turned to

me and asked, “What do you say? Is

there any harm in your eating now?”

I could hardly defy my uncle,

specially as he echoed my mother’s

commands as well. I did not agree to

eat.

Shambhu Babu turned now to my

uncle. “Please forgive us for the

inconveniences you may have had to

suffer. We are not rich. I am sorry we

could not make the arrangements

worthy of you. It is getting late, I

would not like to cause you any more

trouble. Let us then—”

“Yes, let us go to the sabha,

uncle,” I said.

Shambunath Babu said, “Shall I

send for the carriages?”

Uncle was surprised. “Is this some

kind of a joke?”

Shambhunath Babu said, “The

joke was perhaps on your part.

Anyway, I have no desire to

perpetuate it.”

Uncle stared at him in

astonishment.

Shambhunath Babu simply said,

“I cannot give my daughter to a family

which considers me capable of

stealing her gold.”

This time he did not think it

necessary to speak to me. It had

already been demonstrated that I did

not matter.

I do not wish to describe what

followed. Before the bridegroom’s

party left the sabha they broke the

chandeliers, smashed the furniture

and left a total wreck behind them.

On our way back there was no

music. The brass band, the flute, the

shehnai—all remained silent. The

decorative lamps and the mica

chandeliers disappeared in the

darkness, leaving the job of

illumination to the stars above.

III

Everyone in the family was furious

with rage. A girl’s father, and such

audacity! What was the world coming

to! “We will see how he gets his

daughter married now,” they

threatened. But how did you punish

a man who seemed untroubled by the

fear that his daughter would remain

unmarried?

I must be the only male in all of

Bengal to be thrown out of a marriage

assembly by the bride’s father. What

malevolent star could have branded

so highly eligible a young man with

such a stigma—after so much pomp,

music and bright lights? Those who

had accompanied the bridegroom

could never get over the insult of

being tricked into a dinner when the

marriage did not take place. The only

way to get even, they regretted, was

to have churned out their stomachs,

spewing out all the food at the

reception itself. My uncle raved and

ranted about suing the girl’s father for

breach of contract and defamation,

but his well-wishers reminded him

that going to the law court would only

add to the scandal.

I too was in a state. I twirled my

moustache in anger and prayed that

circumstances would one day force a

contrite Shambhunath Babu to crawl

and beg for our forgiveness.

But along with this current of

black venom flowed another stream

which was not dark at all. I could not

release my heart from the unknown

girl who had appropriated it. There she

remained—bright behind the wall I

was unable to cross, her face redolent

with sandal paste and a maidenly

blush, her figure draped in the red

wedding sari and her heart brimming

with emotions I would never know. In

my imagination she was like a

flowering creeper, ready to offer all her

vernal blossoms to me. I could smell

the fragrance in the breeze, hear the

leaves murmur; she was just one step

away from me— but suddenly the

distance stretched into infinity.

Earlier, I had been haunting Binudada’s

house every evening. Every

word of his cryptic description had

sparked my imagination. I had realised

that she was a person of extraordinary

beauty, but alas, I never met her or

saw her picture. The image remained

indistinct in my mind. She never came

into my life in reality, but it was a pity

that I had no way of even preserving

her in my imagination. Like a

phantom, my mind hovered around

the uncrossed wall of the wedding

chamber, mourning this loss.

Harish had told me that she had

seen my photograph. She must have

liked what she saw. There was no

reason for her not to do so. I wanted

to believe that she still had that

photograph hidden in a secret place.

On some lonely afternoon, did she not

take it out behind closed doors? Did

not the loose strands of her hair frame

her face and fall on the picture as she

bent over it? If she heard footsteps

outside did she not quickly hide it in

the fragrant folds of her sari?

Days went by. A year passed. My

uncle was too embarrassed to talk

about marriage again. My mother

wanted to wait until the memory of

humiliation had faded before she

could start fresh negotiations.

I came to know that there was a

very good offer of marriage for the

girl but she had taken a vow

never to marry. Somehow, I was

thrilled at this news. I imagined

her languishing for me. She

hardly eats, she forgets to braid

her hair in the evening. Her father

looks at her face and wonders at

the change that has come over

her. I imagine him entering her

room one day to find her eyes

full of tears. “Tell me, my little

mother,” he asks, “Is anything

the matter with you?” She

quickly wipes her tears to assure

him that nothing is wrong. An

only daughter, she is the most

cherished person in his life. He

cannot bear to see her wilt like a

flower in the season of drought.

He swallows his pride and comes

to our doorstep. And then?

The black venom that flows

in my veins coils up again like a cobra

and hisses at me: “Very well, let there

be wedding arrangements afresh. Let

there be lights and music and let the

whole world be invited. Then in the

midst of it all you shall trample down

your bridegroom’s headdress and

wreck the assembly by stalking out.”

But the other stream, limpid as tears,

assumes the shape of a swan to tell

me, “Let me fly to her as I once did to

the flower gardens of Damayanti,

bearing the message of her lover. Let

me go to the lonely one and give her

the good tidings.”

And then? The night of sorrows

would be over, the first raindrops

would soak the parched earth and the

wilted flower would look up again.

This time round the rest of the world

would stay outside the wall and the

only one person to go inside would

be me. And then? Well, that is how

the story would end.

But it did not end this way. Let me

quickly retrace the point at which the

story becomes endless.

I was escorting my mother on a

pilgrimage. This task was given to me

because my uncle had not yet brought

himself to cross the Howrah Bridge.

As I slept on the train the rhythmic

movement of the carriage triggered off

a series of unrelated dreams that

tinkled pleasantly in my mind. I woke

up suddenly when the train stopped

at a station which also looked like a

dream. In that half-light only the stars

looked familiar—all else was hazy and

mysterious. The few dim lamps in the

station only served to show how

strange and distant the rest of the

world was. My mother slept on her

berth under a lamp covered with a

green shade. Our baggage lay

scattered around us as if in a dream,

hovering in the green twilight between

reality and fantasy. In this strange

world, suddenly, in the middle of the

unearthly night, a voice was heard:

“Hurry up, there is room here in this

compartment.”

To my ears it sounded like music.

To appreciate how sweet the Bengali

language sounds when spoken by a

Bengali girl, it has to be heard

unexpectedly like this, in an unknown

place and an unlikely hour.

But this was not just any female

voice. There was a distinctive music

in it the like of which I had never

heard.

I have always been fascinated by

the human voice. The physical

beauty appeals to everyone but to

me it is the voice that really conveys

the essence of what is unique and

elusive in a person. I quickly opened

the window of my compartment, but

nothing was visible outside. In the

dark platform the railway guard held

up his one-eyed lantern, and the train

moved, but I kept sitting at the

window. I had no clear image in my

mind, but I had the vision of a person

who, like the star-lit sky, enveloped

you, but remained outside your

reach. This unknown voice had

straightaway made a place in my

heart that is reserved for the most

intimate. In the restless flux of time,

this music seems to have blossomed

into a perfect flower, untouched by

the waves of change.

The train moved to the beat of an

iron drum. The refrain of the song in

my mind was, “There is room here, in

this compartment.” Is there though?

It is not easy to make room for, or to

know, each other. But not knowing is

like a mist. Once it is lifted, the

recognition is for ever. O my ineffable

music, have I not always known you?

There is room, there is space for me.

You asked me to hurry up, and here I

am; I did not tarry a moment longer.

I did not sleep well that night. At

every station I looked out of the

window, afraid that the person I had

not yet seen might get down before

the night was over.

Next morning we had to change

trains at a big junction station. We

had first class tickets and I had hoped

we would be able to avoid the rush.

But apparently an Army General was

travelling that day. As I saw the

orderlies of the British officer waiting

with his luggage on the platform, I

knew I would have to give up the hope

of boarding a first class compartment.

All the other carriages were so terribly

crowded I did not know how to get a

comfortable place for my mother.

While I was peeping dejectedly into

one overcrowded compartment after

another, I heard a female voice from a

second class carriage calling out to

my mother: “Please come into our

compartment, there is room here.”

Startled, I realised it was the same

voice that had haunted me all through

the night, and the refrain was the same:

there is space. I lost no time in

boarding the carriage with my mother.

There was hardly any time to bring

our luggage in. I am one of the most

inept persons in the world. The girl

had to come forward to help, hauling

up the suitcases and the bedrolls from

the porters on the platform, on to the

running train. My camera got left

behind in the process, but at that time

I hardly cared.

It is difficult to narrate the events

which followed. I do not know how to

begin or end describing the state of

total bliss I experienced. Stringing

word after word to form sentences

seems somehow quite pointless.

The music that had echoed in my

mind all this time was before me in

person; even so, she still was a

melody for me. I looked at my mother

and saw that she too could not take

her eyes away from the girl. She must

have been sixteen or seventeen, but

her newly awakened youth did not

seem to have burdened her either

physically or mentally. Her

movements were unselfconscious,

her gestures most spontaneous and

the innocence of her beauty was

incomparable. There was nothing

awkward or inhibited about her.

I watched her, but the details are

difficult to recall. I don’t even

remember the colour of the sari she

was wearing. Her clothes did not

overshadow her personality. She

stood out distinctively from those

around her, even as the stalk of the

white tuberose exceeds the branch on

which it grows. There were several

younger girls with her and they talked

and laughed companionably together.

I was pretending to read a book, but

my ears were eagerly tuned to their

conversation. Whatever I overheard

seemed to be in the nature of playful

childish exchanges, but it was

remarkable that the difference in their

age did not seem to matter. She

seemed to have gladly become a child

with these children.

The girls insisted on their reading

out a particular story from the

illustrated children’s book they were

carrying. They must have heard the

story twenty times before. But I could

see why they were still so keen. The

magic of her voice turned every word

into gold. Her gestures, her

movements all sparkled with such joy

of life that the girls seemed to listen

more to her than to the story, letting

the fountain-spring of her vitality flow

over their hearts. This glow of life

illuminated my day, and even the sky

around us seemed to be charged with

her pristine radiance. At the next

station she called out to the hawker

selling spiced channa and all of them

munched it with obvious relish.

My mother was torn between

fascination and disapproval. Here I

was, a male of the species, sitting in

the same compartment—but that did

not seem to inhibit this girl in any way.

My mother was particularly uneasy

about her eating so heartily in my

presence. But the girl did not give the

impression of being brazen. My

mother put it down to a lack of proper

training in deportment. She was

curious about the girl and would have

liked to talk to her. But her long habit

of keeping aloof made it difficult for

her to communicate with strangers.

At this point the train stopped at

another junction station. Some

Englishmen, probably part of the

General’s entourage, were trying to

board the train. The carriages were all

overcrowded. They walked in front of

our compartment a few times, making

my mother freeze in fear. Frankly, I was

feeling a little worried myself.

Just before the train started again,

a railway officer came with some name

tags and attached them to two of our

berths. “The sahibs had reserved

these berths earlier. You will have to

vacate, and find places somewhere

else,” we were told. I stood up

immediately, but the girl spoke up in

Hindi: “No, we are not moving from

here.” The man was adamant: “You

have no choice.” When the girl made

no move to get up, the railway officer

called the station master who was an

Englishman. The station master

addressed me politely, “I am sorry, but

...” Even before he had finished I was

calling out for a porter to remove our

luggage. Her eyes blazed as she

looked at me. “No, you will not move.

Just stay where you are.” Then she

walked up to the door of the

compartment

and spoke to the

station master in

English: “It is a

lie! These berths

are not

reserved.” She

tore up the name

tags and threw

them on the

platform.

Meanwhile

the uniformed

Englishman had

arrived, followed

by his orderly.

He had signalled

the orderly to

put his baggage

inside, but when

he saw the girl,

heard her words

and watched her

action, he quietly

tapped the

station master on

the shoulder and

took him aside. I

do not know

what transpired but the departure of

the train was delayed till an extra

bogey could be attached to it. The

girl and her group bought another

round of fried channa, and I looked

out of the window to hide my shame

as I pretended to admire the landscape

outside.

The train stopped at Kanpur. The

girl arranged their things together to

get down. An upcountry servant who

had come to receive them, helped her

with the luggage. My mother could

not restrain herself any longer. “What

is your name, my daughter?” she

asked.

“I am Kalyani.”

Both my mother and I started.

“And your father?”

“He is a doctor here. His name is

Shambhunath Sen.”

And then they got off the train.

Epilogue

Defying my uncle’s orders and

ignoring my mother’s objection, I have

come to Kanpur. I have met Kalyani

and her father. I have brought myself

on my knees before them with folded

hands. Shambhunath Babu is

touched by my apology, but Kalyani

says she cannot get married. I asked

her why.

“My mother’s commands,” she

said.

Good heavens, I thought. If there

is a mother, is there an uncle too

somewhere in her background?

Then I realised she was talking of

the motherland. After the fiasco of her

marriage, she had dedicated herself

to the education of girls.

But I did not give up hope. That

music had entered my heart to remain

there forever. Like the melody of a flute

from a world

beyond ours, it

beckoned me to

move out of my

groove. The

words heard in

the darkness of

the night—

there is room

h e r e — h a v e

become my

life’s refrain. I

was twenty

three then; now

I am twenty

seven. I have

not given up

hope yet, but I

have given up

my uncle. Since

I am the only

child, my

mother has not

been able to

give me up.

Do I have

any hopes of

m a r r i a g e ?

N o n e

whatsoever. I

live in the faith which an unknown

melodious voice had instilled in me

on a dark night: there is room here.

There is room for me. There must be.

Or else, where would I go? Thus years

come and go, I stay on. I meet her; I

listen to her voice; I try and be useful

to her whenever I can, and my heart

tells me that this is indeed where I

belong. I have found a place for

myself. O my unknown woman, I have

not got to know you full well; I never

will. But I am fortunate, I have found

my space. r

(The translator acknowledges

her debt to Hitendra Nath Bhaya for

detailed revision of her earlier draft).